


Hollow

by riverswillow



Series: Almost [1]
Category: Angel: the Series
Genre: Angst and Porn, F/M, I don't understand why 'angst and porn' is a tag but it's accurate, References to Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, nothing is happy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-01
Updated: 2013-06-01
Packaged: 2017-12-13 15:00:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/825634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/riverswillow/pseuds/riverswillow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When you've lost it all, there's not much farther to fall. So getting dead drunk and attempting to give orgasms to a timeless godking who murdered the love of your life and wears their face is entirely reasonable, right? Any attempt to feel anything other than hollow. Wes/Fred Wes/Illyria Wes/Scotch</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hollow

Drinking and fucking were an appalling, dreadful, and utterly stupid combination.

Drinking was supposed to loosen one’s inhibitions, so that a person, a pathetic fucking excuse for a human being, blood and bone and, one could dream, an immortal soul, could enact their deepest fantasies- or, whatever passing whim came their way- without regret. Until the dreaded morning, anyway, but for those drunken moments the passing fancies were holy, and the sun a lifetime away. And when that morning would hit, with a skull splitting hangover and a gut of regrets, that pathetic incredibly human degenerate could reason, “Well, I was just really pissed wasn’t I?” as an all encompassing excuse for their humanity, and lusts, and sins. And overall idiocracy..

This worked considerably less well when one had no recollection of the last time they had been any state of consciousness approaching sobriety. There was no salvation or comfort to one's mind when they violated consciously everything they had ever held dear. Repeatedly.

And he never could have justified any of those excuses during any point of his life besides. There was the man he had believed to be, and the broken shell that was now his existence, and somewhere deep within that fucked up mess there was whatever passed as truth, and that truth always upheld the distinction between fantasy and reality.

This was why, once upon a pompous lifetime ago, he rarely drank. An occasional glass of scotch at meetings and to end the day, sure, he was British after all. He had developed a respectably massacred liver during his days at Uni. But since then he had grown to understand himself considerably better- he knew those hidden desires he held within himself, and preferred instead to be in control of his actions. And that wasn’t, of course, remotely related with many hazy humiliating memories of dancing on top of pub counter tops to Madonna hits.

However, being in control of his actions really didn’t make any damn bloody difference these days anyway, since anything he cared about protecting himself from, or protecting them from himself, or any reason to hold his desires in check, any reason for joy had been ripped from him. He was hollow, nothing inside, and yet trying so desperately to feel something, anything, to not be an empty vessel.

He breathed out sharply, breath ragged against the cold hard skin of Illyria’s neck. She was wrapped around him, pushing him into the wall- he didn’t even care anymore that it was supposed to be the other way around, sometimes it was- hands on his hips, driving him into her as he desperately gripped her waist, his other hand fumbling between caressing her beasts and sometimes just spasming out of lust-driven elation. The only form of elation afforded to him.

His soul could be massacred, but his body could still feel. And every time he orgasmed he despised himself just a bit more- a miracle, truly, for there had to be a limit to self hatred eventually, and no end was in sight- for taking this from her.

Not that there was anything here to take. Illyria was giving it all to him. Fuck, he was probably the one she was taking from- this was her human experience, this was her attempt to understand the mayhem that lowly creatures strove for.

And because that thought sickened him so entirely, he pushed her off of him- they both knew she was only allowing his attempts at strength, she could crush him unto dust if she wished, and pulled himself out of her. She gave a small sound that could have been a moan or a hick up, he was always the noisy one of the two, no matter how much he attempted to stay silent. He spun her around, dragged her to his bed, pushed her onto it, and took her from behind.

It was all a charade anyway. They both knew that she could quite probably kill him with her little finger. He wondered if she understood that this wasn’t supposed to be how it worked, there was supposed to be love, and affection, that there was a concept called making love that he never was granted the time for with Fred. It was not supposed to be a contest of silence and an experiment in how much violence (his) fragile body would withstand. Because really, at the end of the day and night that’s what he was, entirely and humanely fragile.

Then again, his memories with Lilah weren’t all that different, so maybe he had no real idea of what there was ‘supposed to be.’

He had his dreams. But those had been just dreams, just his soul wishing and hoping beyond its means. He had drifted within countless dreams of making love to Fred- and those were the ones he would let himself fantasize about, but sometimes at night other wishes and desires of her, for her, would press upon him, of those other wants he had for her body...

Illyria bucked under him, and he saw stars for a second, so close but not letting himself go. Usually a lover's perseverance was to try and have the ecstasy continue for as long as possible. Untold moments of bliss. So he could pleasure her as well, and not only have that pleasure be one sided. It was not a competition. There was no winner. He didn’t want to let her win. She always won.

He wasn't actually certain, besides, if he had ever pleasured her as well. He didn't know if he had given her one single orgasm. _That_ at least she should have screamed about, slightly, perhaps. Well, wasn’t that the way of it, most women apparently lied about it anyway. Illyria was many things, but a liar was not among them. She did not know enough of this world to speak falsehoods.

He wasn't a fool. Of course he knew that a relationship could, and even possibly _should_ , have a healthy mixture of beautiful love making on beaches or whatever other fucking ideal there was and senseless shagging. It was just that Winifred Burkle was not the kind of girl that was senselessly shagged. She was to be courted, with lovely candlelit dinners, wooed with flowers and tender kisses. She would be splayed out on blankets in the warm sun, smiling shyly at him the morning after as she was tucked up in one of his shirts, far too big for her, sleeves draping past the tips of her fingers, and he’d kiss her sweetly and make her cry his name.

Not that that ever happened. Because they’d been together all of a bloody six days, and he was going to not fuck it up, like he fucked up everything. He wouldn’t let himself use her like that, she was too entirely precious of a being to use for sex.

Illyria twisted around again- fuck- and bit onto his neck- _fuck_ , how did she have the control to not kill him, her tongue was in his ear _fuck_ \- and he was so close to letting go but he crashed into his headboard and his desk side lamp was shaken, shone directly in his eye- _everything’s so bright and cold and hollow_ \- and he held on for the girl whose body he was defiling.

She had wanted it, actually, in point of fucking fact. The first and only date he had taken her on- he would have taken her on one every night of their pathetic beginning of a relationship, every night for the rest of their lives if that was what she wished, but they had _work_ so he took her ice skating one Tuesday evening because they were both miraculously finished with their subsequent devil-sanctioned jobs by 6 pm, and then to a nice, over priced but delicious Thai restaurant afterwards. He had spent the dinner trying to not look down her blouse and not trying to think how much he wanted to run his hand up her milky thighs and pry them apart and taste every sweet treasure she encompassed. Also trying to not hate himself for how much he sounded like like that bloody horrible song he despised on the radio.

So instead he was a perfect gentleman, held her hand as she spoke energetically and brightly about the newest findings in inter-dimensional space travel, which was all silly anyway since space and time were inadvertently linked with Spoken’s theory of magical dimensional realities, but still the findings were _fascinating_ if not perplexing to the concept of string theory, and occasionally silenced her with chaste kisses. They were Those People on a date- no better than bloody teenagers, all dewy eyes and blushing and it was all worth it because she was happy and _he was the one making her happy_.

But oh, she wanted it. He dropped her back off at her flat and she demurely invited him inside for coffee and fruitcake, blushing serenely. And, oh, had his blood begun to rush but he shook off those thoughts because he had been by her apartment many a time, and this was _Fred_ after all- they would surely be chaste and slow and he didn’t care how many cold showers he had to take, it was worth it all for every bright, windswept (there was no other word even if of course there was no _wind_ so perhaps it was a horrible comparison) smile she blessed him with after he would kiss her.

And so they ended up cuddling on the couch as some nature documentary played in the background, and he kissed her at some upteemth point- he really did believe he would never get sick of it- for some upteemth reason, the way he had been kissing her- slowly and hesitantly, as if he always expected her to pull back and tell him thank you but actually, nevermind (because he _did_ expect her to do just that.) But she didn’t, instead pushing him into the sofa as she kissed him increasingly passionately, scraping her teeth along his neck as he breathed raggedly, his hands wrapped into her hair- completely having undone the pretty up-do she had been sporting. He had no idea who had undone her blouse- it must have been her, looking back, because he was too terrified to make any first move, so intent on not fucking everything up- but he did distinctly remember undoing her bra, because he had been touching her underneath that bothersome fabric, though god even _that_ he only had done with her insistence. God how that had turned him on, for her to want him, to tell him what she wanted him to do for him _please_ , rolling her nipple between his fingers- and oh god the sounds she had been making, they were better than anything his imagination had ever supplied- and god the way she had said his _name_ when he tasted her there, at her heartbeat, suckling lightly as his fingers ghosted over her other breast and she had been crying his name.

And then she was touching him through his trousers, cupping his shaft and moving her fingers along the length of him but the corduroy was too much, inconvenient and stifling. So he gave no objections when she undid the zipper of his trousers and reached inside, through his boxer briefs. He had breathed out shakily and gritted out her name like a prayer, and imagined her sinking to her knees as he stayed on that couch, taking him in her mouth until he came in an ecstasy of feeling. He could imagine how she would taste when he would return the favor for her, making her scream his name as he recovered enough time to be able to truly and completely take her.

And so instead he took that hand that was stroking him- considered encouraging her, instead carefully pulled her away, dropped his other arm down from her breast to carefully encircle her waist, and stared her in the eye as he kissed that hand tenderly, on the back of her hand and then, gently, her palm. He thought about kissing her fingertips, taking them into his mouth and sucking, but that would not help his endeavor. Which had already been shaky.

“Not yet, my love.” He had laughed, and she stared at him- eyes so incredibly aroused it almost had undone all his will power, “In due time.’

“I buh- _why_? Why not now?” She has asked, flushed down to her chest, and moved back on top of him- took his hand and placed it under her skirt so he could feel how wet she was- “I want you, and I can tell you feel the same…” she gestured down to his very prominent erection.

He then withdrew his hand from her skirt, wanted to taste her currently on his fingers, wouldn’t let himself. Stared in her beautiful brown eyes instead, forced his breath to calm. “Because it’ll be better if we wait.” He drew his forehead against hers. “Trust me, darling, everything in due time. You won’t regret it.”

“Promise?” she pouted, and he had smiled devilishly, kissing her ear and nipping it as he breathed in her ear, “ _Promise.”_

He had no concept of what he was promising.

He had then drawn back, went upon the not-exactly-easy issue of refastening his trousers over his still note worthy erection, and turned back to Fred, still sprawled on the couch, still topless and with no breath left in her body. She never was to have breath left in that body. He had smiled at her, “Are you going to not put your top back on, then?”

“Not planning on it. This is my place after all, and I have every right to be shirtless if I want to be. And as you’re not staying for the night, I’m going to have to make my own fun, and, let’s be honest, there’s no point in putting clothes back on for that.”

“Oh _really_.” He had purred, pulling her up by the hand and kissing her sweetly, cradling her neck in his hands. She pulled herself up flush against his body, and he gave a sound that was somewhere between a hiss and a groan, thinking she was to be the undoing of him.

“Yes, really.” She smiled, drawing back, her arms around his shoulders as he hung there for another kiss. “You have to resort to toys for fun when other people aren’t willing to give you any after all….” She kissed him several more times before he finally left her apartment, and it was worth every uncomfortable minute of the drive home for the thought that she was thinking of him right then, thinking of the things he could do to her, and the things she was doing to herself in anticipation.

But it had all been a fucking lie. It had all been useless, because she didn’t understand the reason he pulled away was he didn’t trust himself with her. Because dirty talking or vibrators not with standing, he couldn’t imagine his Fred allowing him to do all the things he wished to do with her body. Because at times it seemed like his desire for her body was quite with standing from his utter devotion and love to her, and he hated how separate those entities were, and only ever wanted to make love to her and somehow meld the two. He needed to meld the two. They could not stay separate.

He should have just fucked her that night. She was willing. God was she willing. She had been wet and crying his name and now-

And now he was left with the cold hard shell of her body, who wouldn’t moan or yield, only would examine him and occasionally take control to show him who was _actually_ in command of this experiment. And he kept fucking coming back. He had no reason to stay sober now, and so he lived his life in a haze of alcohol, and used it as his crux to explain why he did this. Why he fell into Illyria and hated himself all the more with every thrust.

He finally couldn’t hold on any longer and came, in a burst of pinpoints in front of his eyes and ragged breath. She made him see stars. How romantic. Except without any connotation of romance. She probably did not even understand the meaning of the word. He supposed that was his job, as her guide, to teach her such concepts she was unfamiliar with. He would never fucking teach her what romance meant. Not on whatever there was left of his soul. She was mostly and utterly a creature of hollow, with the capacity to feel and none to love, and a craving to be filled. And he had enough humanity left within him to not defile Fred's memory by imagining any unto Illyria.

He carefully withdrew himself from her instead and went about the business of locating his boxers.

Illyria watched his back as he stepped into his trousers. “Why do you leave?”

He paused. Frozen. “Do you want me to stay?”

“Not particularly. I just wondered why you always left right after we mate.”

He looked in her eyes- cold and blue and lifeless- and took a deep breath. He always needed to breathe, in and out perpetually despite his wishes to the opposite. The love of his life was gone of breath but he always had too much. “Staying is a romantic notion. It’s what people do if they’re in love.”

She did not reply, simply... looked at him. With that gaze of hers, that gaze from features that had once been human, that gaze that viewed all of humanity and the Earth as a science experiment and them, caught in that web, as her amusing little mice. It filled him with such a guilt for the cheekbones and lips and beauty that he once had been devoted to, that all he could do instead was focus on a much lesser guilt. “Are you- do you need anything more?” he began awkwardly, not sure how to ask her this.

She tilted her head to the side, eying him closely. “I do not understand.”

“I mean to say, I’ve never heard you- do you want me to……” he should have just left. Fuck. “Do you have any memories from- before-” because he couldn’t say her name to Illyria, he wouldn’t grant her that power. Except all the times he did, but tonight wasn’t one of them. “Of, -this? With anyone that she… was with…” he wasn’t explaining this correctly at all.

“Yes. Fred has memories of fornication. Why?”

Straight to the point, that one. “Do you have memories of, the end? For her?” He wondered if he sounded as awkward as he felt.

“The term, as according to the shell’s memories, is orgasm, for the state of completion you are explaining.”

“Yes. Well. That.” He felt eighteen years old.

“I do not require completion. Unlike you humans, I am already complete.” She paused. “I suppose it would be a new experience to acquire first hand. And I have no other uses of my time currently. So, I will assent to your offer.”

He sighed, settling back down on the bed, and pulled her to him again. “Well, all right then.” He carefully felt inside her, and he almost swear she shook. Almost.

And he remembered Fred's words, among her last, of everything being so hollow and cold, and all they were was hollow. Illyria's body where once dwelt a beautiful soul, now unto empty. He a soul within his skin and marrow and bones but heart long since stripped away unto her death. They were both hollow and trying to fill each other and had nothing to give.

And this is why drinking and fucking was an utterly fucking horrible and idiotic combination. Besides the ever present possibility of incompetence. Because one could commit such mad business as attempting to give orgasms to timeless godkings who had destroyed the love of their life.

Which as a note was apparently fucking impossible.

**Author's Note:**

> The song Wes hates is “Your Body is a Wonderland” because that song is creepy as fuck. This is the 2nd thing I'm posting on AO3, and definitely takes places sometime early on within my story 'Almost' that I'll put up sometime soon, really. All I've done with my life lately is write it. It definitely doesn't take place in canon because, yeah, Wes never got to that level of masochism in season 5. I may end up working this into a chapter somewhere, but, we'll see.
> 
> I somehow don't say Wes's name once in here, which I did on accident but I kind of like, it adds a lot of anonymity to this.
> 
> Also, Wes, if a girl you've known forever likes you and wants to have sex with you and you want to have sex with her and she’s giving you a handjob JUST FUCKING SLEEP WITH HER. If she has toys she’s -probably- not as innocent as you think she is.
> 
> (I have rants on how Wes sees Fred and what Fred actually is, but hopefully it speaks for itself in my writing and I don’t have to spell out that he has -slight- issues in making her overtly innocent and perfect.)


End file.
